


In The Ice

by tricksterity



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e11 Alpha Pact, M/M, episode coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:44:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tricksterity/pseuds/tricksterity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles' mind as he falls underneath the ice and feels himself fading away, and his born-again experience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Ice

**Author's Note:**

> So when I was writing this I accidentally slipped into second person, so if I've forgotten to fix that please let me know. I absolutely adored this episode but I felt like I needed to add something at the end and an opportunity for my OTP came along...

The water was blackness. It was a vague sense of serenity combined with the creeping terror of oblivion and nothingness. He could only vaguely recall the sheer terror, fear and the thrashing of his limbs during what must have been only seconds before his mind drifted into this state, but it felt like ages and ages ago. Eons, in fact, his life at the other end of a very long tunnel, brightness and memories so far away he wondered if he even wanted to go back that way. 

But it didn’t matter.

Here it was black. It was a floating sensation now that he couldn’t feel his body – did he still have a body? Was he inside one still, were these the final moments of his synapses firing before he shut down and became non-existent? Was this the feeling of just being an organ and nothing else? Or was he a soul, free and floating away into nowhere, into oblivion or an afterlife? But surely he shouldn’t be asking such metaphysical questions where he was. He was dead, or dying, he wasn’t sure anymore.

He couldn’t even see the tunnel of his memories, couldn’t remember his name or even that he existed, just floating endlessly, the black getting blacker, a void of emptiness. It wasn’t hot or cold, he wasn’t standing or sitting or floating or breathing, just – there. But not existing.

And then it all came crashing back to him as he was pulled violently back through the tunnel at the speed of light, making him dizzy as he crashed back into himself and the frigid icy depths he had sunken into. Two small hands on his shoulders, nails biting through his drenched shirt as he broke through the surface of ice and mistletoe, heaving a great breath like it was his first. He understood how people said near-death experiences were like coming back to life.

His hands were flailing and there was a warm sensation on his hand, probably the blood from the edges of his father’s badge as he clutched it tightly in his frozen digits, unable to move them. He coughed and spluttered the odd tasting water out, one of those small hands removing itself from his shoulder to push his hair back from where it stuck to his forehead. Comforting words being murmured to him, the sloshing of ice from either side of him as he remembered that there were others there. 

Who? 

Scott, always Scott, always with him always together always brothers forever and ever, the blood pact they made when they were eight, mingled together and connected for eternity, how could he forget Scott? Allison, beautiful Allison who he hated for a time, her kind sunshine smile that made jealousy boil up in his gut as she took away Scott who was always there but now they were both there and Allison was strong and powerful and independent and a friend. Small hands he’d recognize anywhere, Lydia. Wonderful, beautiful, intelligent, insane, strawberry-blonde Lydia, going to win the Field’s Medal, not a human at all but a banshee, screaming for help, but she could help herself how strong she was. 

Voices, deep and authoritarian, Deaton, who knew everything but never divulged the information until he was asked, knowing more than he should, Scott’s boss who was more than that, Deaton always more of everything. And Isaac, voice tinged slightly with English, curly-haired and puppy-like, unsure and confused and hurt but arrogant and sure and reckless, Isaac who was like a new brother to Scott and obviously confused about him and Allison and Scott; reliable back-up Isaac.

Someone was missing, he was sure, and not just his father and surrogate mother and Allison’s father, hunter, helper. Someone should be here and was not, he’d just died for an inconceivable amount of time and there were no strong hands pulling him out of the ice and into an embrace, whispering comfort to him and stroking a hand through his hair like he should be. Calloused, weathered hands, deft and controlled, a voice like silk and velvet and gravel, an oxymoron in name and self; always cool, calm and collected with back-up plans for his back-up plans, manipulative and mouthy and dependent and always with ulterior motives. But loved, and loving, surprised and vaguely confused yet so sure of this, putting up with his stupidity and whenever he ran his mouth there was always a retort waiting.

Where was he?

He should be here. He would know.

Stiles died. He’d promised he’d be here if that happened.

Said he’d be at his side. Had he lied?

No.

He lied to everyone but him. Never him. Where was he?

Shouting, and confused voices, and he was freezing and numb and barely alive and those warm hands were pulling him out and into muscled arms like he should be. Stiles barely managed to wrap the icicles that were his arms around his neck, warm breath tickling his ear and neck as words he couldn’t yet understand wound comfortably around him. He was safe, and secure, and alive in his arms. Feeling came back to the tips of his extremities like a hot, static fire, similar to the change in temperature when you’re at your mate’s house and he’s an idiot and tells you to jump into the pool and then the spa over and over again because it feels weird and _why did you let Scott tell you to do that it was stupid and really painful_.

Stiles grips onto him tighter, leaning all his deadweight on him but he doesn’t mind, he’s warm and strong because he’s a werewolf, and Stiles trust him and he can handle that. He trusts Stiles back even though he set him on fire and isn’t that a damper on a relationship? And he may be an innumerable number of years older than him but who cares because they’re meant for each other, he’s said so himself, whispered it into his skin on nights when he felt on fire and a good fire not a burning fire or static fire, but a fire in his bones that only _he_ could put there.

Peter.

Strong, handsome, sassy, brilliant, intelligent, cunning, ambitious, beautiful Peter; with his arms around Stiles and Stiles’ arms around him and he’s with him now he’s born again and they’re going to take the world by storm and not give a damn what anybody thinks, he know that the sacrifices worked, he can feel it in that strange place inside him that tingled with the Mountain Ash last year, he’s going to find his dad. They’re still missing but he’s not and right now that’s all Stiles can think of as he manages to pull back and press his lips to Peter’s.

 _I thought I lost you_ , that’s what he’s saying, _felt it thrum through the air as Derek healed Cora and the Darach’s shriek of triumph echoed throughout the town, but you’re alive and here and you’re a complete goddamn idiot and nearly killed me for a second time my heart had surely stopped_. But Stiles is alive and so is Peter and they don’t care if the room is silent in shock because everything is going to be okay.

Everything is going to be okay.


End file.
